In August, 1967, we passed through
Chicago on our way to
San Francisco.
For a young Canadian, travelling to a big American city was quite an adventure. It was so big. We arrived by train from Toronto in one of the several train stations.
I couldn't believe this. In Canada there is only one train station in each city. I now know there are so many railroad lines in the United States, and each has its own station.
I remember the piles of rubble all around. I was so awe-struck. I guess they remained from riots in the previous years. The idea of riots on such a scale, that blocks upon blocks were laid waste is even today still difficult to comprehend.
It reminded me of images of European cities after the devastation of World War II.
We made a picnic in a park across from the Hilton Hotel. It was rather pleasant, if a little windy--the windy city?
What a weird feeling, a year later, to see the very same park, on television during the riots at the Democratic Convention in 1968.
This is what I think about when I think about America.